


Imago Salon & Spa

by kmo



Series: Imago Salon [2]
Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: Everybody Lives, F/M, Hair Kink, Hair Salon AU, Hair-pulling, Hannibal is Not a Cannibal, Romantic Fluff, Unresolved Sexual Tension
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-10-06
Updated: 2016-07-03
Packaged: 2018-04-25 05:14:15
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 18,882
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4948024
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kmo/pseuds/kmo
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Hair Salon AU: Hannibal is a master stylist and Bedelia is his favorite client. </p><p>Hannibal is not a cannibal and the worst thing anyone has to worry about is split ends.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This is 100% silly AU fluff based on the fact that Hannibal being obsessed with Bedelia's hair is totally canon.

“Hannibal will be with you in just a minute. Can I get you something—coffee, water, a magazine?” a young girl with long shining hair and vivid blue eyes asks, taking Bedelia’s coat.

“Water would be fine, thank you.” Bedelia reclines against the salon’s plush sofa and takes a deep breath. The traffic downtown had been murderous and the weather atrocious. It had been an exhausting week—one of her patients had to be admitted to an inpatient facility. Now she could finally sit down and relax. The salon with its polished wood paneling and open fireplace is warm, inviting, and quiet. It has the air of a library and the exclusivity of a private club. Imago Salon's prices are extravagant, but worth every penny. And what Hannibal does with her hair is nothing short of art.

“Dr. Du Maurier,” Hannibal says, his greeting formal but his voice warm and affectionate. He bends to kiss her hand, charmingly old-fashioned. Bedelia wonders if the rumors about him being exiled European nobility might actually be true. “Please, follow me.”

Hannibal guides her to his chair, tucked away in the back of the salon before an ornate gilt mirror. There are only one or two other customers. Debussy plays softly to cover up the snick of shears and idle chatter; it’s nearly as hushed as a church. Bedelia sits while Hannibal drapes a dark cape about her shoulders.

His hands wander through her hair, frowning at her obvious roots. “It’s been too long since I’ve had you in my chair, Doctor.”

She usually came in to have her roots dyed and ends trimmed every six weeks like clockwork. “I’m sorry. I’ve been so terribly busy.”

“I was afraid you were cheating on me,” he teases.

“Not in a thousand years. Where would I go?  _Frederique’s?_ ” The thought of Hannibal’s cross-town rival with its thumping bass and urban grunge aesthetic gives her a headache. She’d gone there once for a trim and nearly walked out with a Mohawk.

“I certainly hope not.” He fluffs her hair with his hands. “What are we doing today?”

She looks at herself in the mirror; her look is fine, more than fine for a woman of her years, but she is getting a bit bored with it. “What do you suggest?” There is always something a bit thrilling about putting herself in Hannibal’s hands, clever as a surgeon’s.

He smiles and his dark eyes glitter back at her. “I’d like to take the color to a darker blonde. Keep some of the natural highlights you have, add a few lowlights to keep it from looking too brassy. It will be enough of a change to be noticeable, but still very sophisticated.” Hannibal specialized in styles that had an old-fashioned glamour; innovative, but never trendy.

She nods. She’d been getting tired of the platinum herself. “Very good.”

“May I offer you a scalp massage before we begin?”

“I’ve never had one before,” she hesitates, “but why not?”

Hannibal uncorks a bottle of pale liquid and wafts it under her nose. It smells heady, jasmine mixed with amber. “Scalp massage has many benefits and is recommended by traditional Ayurvedic medicine to promote healthy hair growth.” He tips the oil into his palms and begins to massage her scalp with the very tips of his fingers starting at the crown, working his way down to her temples and past her occipital bone.

It’s absolutely heavenly and Bedelia finds herself letting forth an involuntary moan of pleasure. “Oh…that feels wonderful.”

“It also has the benefit of reducing stress. You look like you are in need of some stress reduction, Doctor.” Her eyes are closed but she can hear him smile. His fingers continue to work their magic, thumbs brushing the tender skin near her nape.

All too soon, he is finished, leaving her languid, relaxed—yet still craving more. “All done,” he says. He inspects Bedelia’s glass of water with a frown. “Abigail,” he calls to the young woman at the reception desk, “Please bring Dr. Du Maurier a glass of wine. The  _carmenere_  I should think. Perfect for a brisk fall day.” The girl returns with a glass, which he hands to her. “Now, you will drink your wine and relax, while I go and mix your color,” he says with a playful wink.

Bedelia takes a sip of the spicy red, warmth blossoming from her center in a way that has nothing to do with wine. It’s the dirty secret of why she comes to see him; he is her guiltiest pleasure. She loves the feeling of his fingers in her hair, the intense attention he pays to every strand. Bedelia is at times ashamed of how much she enjoys the pampering he lavishes on her, and it hurts, not a little, to know the intimacies they share only exist because they are bought and paid for.

Hannibal returns quickly and begins to paint her hair with near-pointillistic perfectionism. He talks to her, he always does, asking her questions about her work, books she has read, restaurants she has visited, always with genuine interest. Bedelia spends her days listening to the problems of others, ferociously private by nature, and it has always surprised her the way Hannibal gets her to talk. Here, within the walls of the salon, he is the therapist, and she is the patient. The cliché of it irritates her, yet it’s undeniably true.

“Did you get to your beach house as you had planned?”

“No. I cancelled my trip to Nags Head. A patient in crisis.”

Hannibal looks down on her, shaking his head. “You work too hard, Doctor. How can you take care of your patients if you don’t take care of yourself?”

She deflects his concern with idle banter. “That’s why I come here, Hannibal. For at least one afternoon every month, I have you to take care of me.”

A funny look comes into his eyes, almost sad, then melts away. “You keep your patients’ secrets and I keep yours.”

“Like the fact that I am not actually a natural blonde. Or that I’m going grey.”

“I’ll take it to the grave.” He mimes crossing his heart. “A hairstylist is part-artist, part-magician, part-therapist, and part-priest. I take my duties very seriously.”

He sets the timer and leaves her again, swanning off to work his magic on yet another customer. Bedelia can’t help admiring the view as he walks away, dark black jeans snug around his muscular rear, biceps and deltoids rippling beneath the thin fabric of his shirt.

Margot, the junior stylist, catches her staring at Hannibal’s sleek form and she quickly turns her attention to the journal that has sat unread for the past month on her coffee table. Twenty-five minutes passes very quickly and the little alarm starts to beep.

Abigail, his new assistant, comes to fetch her. “If you’ll come with me back to the sinks, Dr. Du Maurier, I’ll rinse you out.”

Bedelia sets aside her journal and follows Abigail, trying not to let her disappointment show. She supposes Hannibal is too busy to shampoo her himself; his services have been in high demand since Imago was named “Best Salon in Baltimore” three years ago. She lays her head in the sink when suddenly she hears Hannibal’s voice rumbling above her.

“Thank you, Abigail. But I will see to Dr. Du Maurier. You may go,” he says, the tiniest sliver of annoyance in her voice.

“But you said I could do the shampoos…and Mrs. Komeda is waiting…”

“And I welcome your initiative. Perhaps Mrs. Komeda would appreciate some tea. I’ll be with her shortly.”

Bedelia hears sneakers retreating in a teenage huff, squeaking on the varnished floors. “I’m sorry for the confusion. Abigail is a bit…overenthusiastic at times.” He turns on the water and runs it tentatively over her scalp. “How’s the temperature?”

“Perfect.”

Bedelia closes her eyes and lets herself give in to the sensual experience of having him wash and condition her hair. Perhaps it was the scalp massage, but today her skin feels extraordinarily sensitive, every touch is heightened, magnified. He takes extra care to massage the shampoo straight into her scalp, his own special rosemary and eucalyptus blend, and she sighs audibly. She can feel her nipples harden inside her bra, and is suddenly very thankful for the cape covering her breasts.

She wonders idly if Hannibal has ever brought a woman to orgasm just by washing her hair.

“You find this very pleasurable.”

“I suppose,” she says, wishing she could hide her guilty blush.

“A lot of people do.” Hannibal coils the wet strands around his fingers, lathering each one individually. The gentle tug on her curls sends a liquid tendril of arousal straight to her pelvis. She can feel desire pooling there, light and giddy and champagne-gold, threatening to melt her from the inside out. “It can be a very sensual experience. Perhaps you could get someone to do it for you at home.”

For a minute she wonders if he is offering, but decides he is not. She is too proud to tell him that there has not been “someone” in her life for a very long time. “Perhaps,” she says sadly.

*****

Hannibal wraps her hair around a thick round brush as he blow dries it by hand, sculpting her hair into long barrel curls. He never lets her see herself in the mirror until he is completely finished. “Ruins the surprise,” he always says.

When he’s finished, he whips her around so she can glimpse herself in the mirror. Her hair shines a deep dark gold, loose curls frame her face and brush her breasts. Her look is no longer that of a distant ice queen, but a goddess of the harvest; earthy but imperious.

“Do you like it?”

“I think I love it,” she says, toying with the ends.

“I love it, too.” He smiles and reaches down to tuck a lock of hair behind her ear. “I saw Botticelli’s  _Birth of Venus_  at the Uffizi when I was a young man in Florence. You make a very fine Venus, Doctor.”

She sees the inspiration in the cut and the color. Bedelia’s cheeks tingle a bit at the comparison. “Now you’re just flattering me.”

He smiles at her and whispers in her ear, a slow seductive purr. “Have I never told you that you’re my favorite client?”

“I’m sure you say that to all your clients. Better for business that way.”

“Nonsense.” He removes the cape with air of a magician finishing a trick. “Don’t you have a favorite patient?” He can’t seem to resist fluffing her curls a final time, as if reluctant to let her go.

“It’s unethical to have a favorite patient. Though some people’s problems are more interesting than others.”

He offers her his hand and guides her up from the chair. “Perhaps I should seek psychotherapy. Then I could be your favorite patient.” He kisses her fingers again, so perfect a gentlemen that Bedelia is convinced it must be an act. “Pity that I am in perfect mental health.”

Bedelia shakes her head, and reminds herself that Hannibal is charming out of necessity, a hustler at heart. Hannibal’s flirtations slide off her lacquer-hard professional walls. Only a silly woman would fall for her eccentric, seductive, and probably gay hairdresser—and Bedelia Du Maurier is most certainly not silly. “See you next month, Hannibal. Ciao,” she says breezily, and drifts away.

*****

Hannibal watches Bedelia glide through the salon’s glass doors and out onto the rain-splattered sidewalk, elegant black umbrella poised high to protect her coiffure. He watches her form wind down the street, golden curls bouncing along behind her, until she turns the corner and disappears out of sight. He feels something strike him, a hollow bruising pain to his heart.

“You didn’t ask her out. Again,” Margot’s voice pierces him, a sarcastic aside over his shoulder. “I swear to God, Hannibal, I’ve seen glaciers move faster than the two of you.”

“Hannibal’s asking who out?” Abigail looks up from the pile of hair she is sweeping.

“The darling, divine Dr. Du Maurier,” Margot says. “He’s been pining for her since I had your job.”

“I’m not asking anyone out. And I do not  _pine_ ,” he says sharply.

Margot rolls her eyes in a fashion that might be considered rude. “Yes, you do. And now you will spend the rest of the week brooding like something out of  _Wuthering Heights_  because you didn’t ask her out. It happens every month—lather, rinse, repeat.”

“If you like her, Hannibal, what’s stopping you?” Abigail asks, sweetly curious.

“Dr. Du Maurier and I have a purely professional relationship. I would not want to ruin what we have.”

“Hasn’t stopped you from seducing half of our regular clientele,” Margot says, arching a perfectly plucked brow.

“She is one of my oldest clients. I feel protective of her…and her hair. That is all.”

Abigail turns her bright blue gaze upon him. “She’s your muse, isn’t she? All artists have a muse. We learned about it in art history this week.”

Hannibal nods in agreement. “Abigail is correct. She is my muse.”

Margot’s eyes narrow. “I thought one of the privileges of having a muse was that you got to bang her.”

Hannibal visibly stiffens at her vulgarity. “It’s not like that between us.”

“Really? Because I saw her face when you were shampooing her hair and she looked liked she was about halfway to orgasm. And really, I should know…” Hannibal glares back at Margot ferociously. “Okay, okay. Sorry.”

“But the real question is,” Abigail twirls in his chair coquettishly, “are you in love with her? Or just in love with her hair?”

“I don’t know,” Hannibal says honestly. It would be interesting, he thinks, to find out.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Visits to the salon by Freddie Lounds and Will Graham. Bedelia learns that a haircut requires trust.

“Tell me, Hannibal, how does it feel to be voted Best Regional Salon by the readers of TattleCurl.com for the second year in a row?” Freddie Lounds is perched provocatively in his styling chair, notepad at the ready. Though Hannibal considers her choice of a leopard and zebra print skirt suit a crime against fashion, he can find no fault with her hair—perfect type 3b copper ringlets curled in gravity-defying springs. He wishes he could claim credit for them, but Freddie’s red curls came to her naturally by God, not spiral perm.

“As always, I am honored to be so honored by the hair enthusiasts that frequent your website. I never take my salon’s reputation for granted,” he answers smoothly.

“False modesty, really, Hannibal? You’ll have to give me something juicier than that.”

“Not false modesty, but simple gratitude, Ms. Lounds.”

Freddie visibly shifts, like a snake uncoiling, and Hannibal knows she is about to attack. “Of course, not everyone is a fan of your work. There are some who consider your styles to be fussy and old-fashioned, with a certain, and I quote, ‘limited niche appeal.’”

“You’ve been speaking to Frederick Chilton.”

“A good reporter never reveals her sources.”

“I have always believed that our aesthetics reveal our ethics. You may tell your unnamed source that if I wanted to appeal to the masses, I’d be working at Supercuts.”

Freddie leans forward, catching a whiff of scandal like shark would a hint of blood. “Do you look down upon chain salons like Supercuts?”

“Not at all. At least at Supercuts the customer receives a salon experience that reflects the price that is paid for it. I cannot always say the same of some so-called upscale salons in the area.” He knows it’s cruel to taunt Frederick in this way, but he can never seem to resist.

Freddie’s blue eyes start to glow, alight with increased page views. “Thank you, Hannibal. Now if we could just get a few snaps of you?”

“I haven’t the time, Ms. Lounds, I must see to my clients. Abigail will send you some promotional photos over email,” he says, bustling her out the door. He feels relief when she and her animal print are removed from his premises.

“You really can’t stand her, can you?” Margot says.

“She and her publication are a necessary evil.”

“Well, cheer up, Hannibal. Guess who’s booked for a 4 o’clock cut and color? Your favorite psychiatrist.”

Abigail glances up from the receptionist’s desk and asks, “Is that why your t-shirt’s so tight today? It looks like you painted it on.”

“It shrunk in the wash,” he lies easily. As if such a thing would ever happen. “Should I change?”

Margot gives him an appreciative once over and lets out a low whistle. “Absolutely not.”

“I’m not sure I should trust your opinion on this, considering you don’t have the right proclivity for parts, Margot.”

“I’m gay, not blind, Hannibal.”

*****

Hannibal stands behind her, running his hands through her thick golden tresses. Bedelia knows his touch is meant to be impersonal, professional, but every pass of his fingers through her hair leaves her body humming, vibrating with a kind of slow-burning eroticism. He curls a lock around his forefinger and tugs ever-so-gently and Bedelia has to press her lips together to keep from moaning aloud. Really, he’s giving her a pleasure that’s she’s not entirely sure is legal in the state of Maryland.

“The usual today?” he asks, continuing to run his fingers through her hair like a comb.

Bedelia is about to answer “Yes” but something about what he’s doing to her makes her bold, reckless. She loves having him play with her hair; she doesn’t want him to stop and she wants so much more than a quick trim will allow. “Surprise me,” she says, almost girlishly.

Hannibal’s eyes twinkle back at her in the mirror, but he says nothing. She wonders if anyone has ever given him a blank check like this before. He teases the ends and lifts a strand of hair with one finger, raising it to chin length. “Do you trust me?”

The question sends an unexpected shiver through her. She grasps his hand and lowers it. “I trust you not to surprise me that much.”

Hannibal laughs, delighted. “I think I understand.”

*****

Stands of dark blonde hair fall to the floor, some much longer than Bedelia had expected and she finds herself tensing with ever snick of the shears. She’s torn between the delicious sensation of his hands touching her hair, over and over, and the strange unexpected arousal she feels at having given up control in this way. She’d never given a man this kind of power over her hair—or her body—before, not in the bedroom or anywhere else. The level of trust required might have been more than she bargained for. And it’s too late to ask him to stop.

Hannibal pauses and asks, “Penny for your thoughts, Dr. Du Maurier?”

A long strand of blonde slides off the cape to the floor and Bedelia tries hard not to gasp.”I’m just wondering what I’ve gotten myself into.”

He lays a hand on her shoulder. “You’re shaking.”

“Am I?” The fear in her voice is obvious, even to her.

Hannibal closes his shears and turns her chair to face him. He crouches to look at her, eye to eye. She’s struck again by how remarkably handsome he is; the grey-brown-golden hair that is too perfect to be natural, the soft depth to his dark eyes. “You know I would never want you to look anything other than your best. And your best is very beautiful.”

“Of course,” she says, a flush coming to her cheeks at the compliment. “I’m being silly, far sillier than a woman of my age ought to be.”

“You’re not silly. Your hair is a part of how you see yourself and how others see you. What we do here requires trust. Trust is difficult for you, I gather.”

“Trust, in my experience, is difficult for everyone,” Bedelia elides.

Hannibal squeezes her hand reassuringly and she’s surprised how much it comforts her, like a warm mug of tea on a cold winter’s day. She never seems to notice how cold she’s become until he reaches out to warm her. “I will push you…because you asked to be pushed. But a good stylist knows never to push the client further than he or she wishes to go.”

“It’s the same in psychotherapy.”

“Then you understand,” he says, brushing his thumb against her manicure in a gesture that is equal parts reassurance and flirtation. “I’m almost finished, Doctor.”

*****

He runs mousse and styling crème through her nearly finished cut; sweet, calming smells of lemongrass and lavender fill the air. “My own special recipe,” he tells her, explaining the myriad benefits of natural ingredients over mass-produced styling products full of sulfates and parabens, terrible for hair and the environment. The heat of the blow dryer nips at her neck and they’re so very close to being done. Bedelia is more excited now than afraid, shamefully aroused, too, from an hour or more spent with Hannibal playing with every inch of her hair. She crosses her legs beneath the cape, squeezing her thighs together in attempt to relieve the ache that has built up between them. The action backfires, and only serves to further arouse her.

Hannibal turns off the dryer and sets it down. He covers her eyes with his hands; it feels very intimate and playful, more intimate a gesture that what would normally exist between stylist and client. “Are you ready to see your new look?” he asks huskily, lips millimeters from her earlobe.

“Yes.” Her heart beats quickly, verging on tachycardia.

Hannibal spins the chair around with a swivel of his hips and removes his hands. Her first reaction is to gasp. The cut is dramatically asymmetrical; her hair is deeply parted to the left side, and long curling layers frame her face from just below chin length, cascading to her shoulders. It is not as short as she feared it would be. He holds up a large hand mirror and she can see that the layers continue into the back, a row of bouncy curls.

“Well?” he asks, no hesitation whatsoever in his voice. He is the artist, she is the canvas. She’d hate him for his smugness if he wasn’t so damn good.

“I look like a film star. A  _film noir_  star to be exact.”

“An updated version of that.” He fingers one of the curls framing her face, the gentlest tease. For a moment Bedelia doesn’t know which she finds more erotic—having him play with her hair or watching him do it. “I take that you like it.”

“Yes.” She struggles to put the feelings into words. “I don’t know how to say this…I’ve always known I was attractive,” she’s not conceited, she knows this to be true, “but this is the first time I’ve ever felt…glamorous.”

“That was the idea.” He tucks a curl behind her ear, revealing a pearl drop earring. “I see your hidden glamour, even if you do not.”

The sincerity of his words touches her, melts some part of her long-frozen. “Thank you,” she whispers.

She hears the truth in what he has been saying. It’s not that she has ever been dowdy, but she has always edged toward conservatism. Truthfully, she had been playing down her looks for years, afraid to let herself truly shine, of the rumors and whispers and of being seen as a beautiful object instead of a powerful professional. Hannibal had somehow unlocked all of this, seen this potential in her—she didn’t want to turn back now.

He grins and continues to pet her hair. The curls catch the light, shimmering like strands of gold. “Do you know why you’re my favorite client? Because no one else ever says ‘Surprise me.’ That’s why.”

As Hannibal spritzes and fluffs her hairtstyle to perfection, there’s a commotion coming from the front lobby. A small, yipping Shih Tzu enters and bounds into Margot’s arms.

“Muffy!” Margot exclaims, cuddling the dog to her chest. “Don’t you look the prettiest.” Margot tweaks the dog’s pink bow and strokes its gleaming silky fur.

Hannibal frowns in the mirror but his eyes perk up at the sight of the scruffy thirtysomething man who has just entered the salon. “That’s Will Graham. He just opened the dog grooming salon across the street—The Chesapeake Clipper, he’s called it. He’s very talented.”

“Is he as adept at canine coiffeurs as you are at human ones?” Bedelia asks.

Hannibal laughs. “So they say. Margot certainly seems impressed with his work.”

“Thanks, Will. She’s never looked better,” Margot tells the new dog groomer.

“This is my design.” Will says with a shrug, avoiding eye contact, dark brown bangs falling into his face. He nods at Hannibal and waves shyly. Hannibal nods back, but Bedelia sees his hands reflexively twitch near his shears. His eyes follow Will until he walks out the door.

“You seem very intrigued by Mr. Graham the Groomer.”

“Actually, I just itch to give him a makeover. He has a handsome face and fine bone structure. I see enormous potential in him.”

Bedelia bristles to hear the undisguised interest in Hannibal’s voice, then chides herself for her irrational jealousy. “You’re very controlling over the aesthetic conditions of your environment, aren’t you, Hannibal? Extending even to your neighbors.”

“I only wish for those around me to look their best,” he says smoothly, whisking aside the cape. He places his hand at the small of her back and guides her over to the mahogany reception desk. The unexpected touch melts away her misgivings, and all is forgiven and forgotten. He finds her coat and tucks it about her shoulders. “You should go out tonight, Dr. Du Maurier. Show the world the more glamorous side of yourself.”

He’s right—she should go out, change her tweed suit for a low-cut cocktail dress, treat herself to dinner at one of her favorite restaurants, a handsome companion at her side. “I’d like that.” Emboldened by the glamour he has cast on her, she asks, “Perhaps you’d like to join me for dinner?”

Hannibal’s mouth gapes open slightly in surprise. His eyes brighten, but quickly fall. “I would love to, but my sister Mischa is arriving tonight and I promised I would pick her up at the airport. She’ll be here for about two weeks. She’s visiting from Paris.”

Bedelia feels suddenly foolish for even asking. The warm golden glamour fades away, darkened to dross. “Another time then.”

“If it were any other time. I don’t get to see my sister very often,” he says, quite apologetically. “You remind me a great deal of her, you know.”

“I see.” Bedelia knew a brush off when she heard one. “Enjoy your evening, Hannibal,” she says, forcing herself to remain cool and polite.

She turns her back to him to hand her platinum Amex to Abigail. Bedelia feels the autumn chill seep into her bones before she even opens the door.

*****

“You really fucked that one up,” Margot says dryly after Bedelia has left.

“Language, Margot.”

“I don’t know what else to call it. She asks you out, practically gagging for it, and you turn her down—you do realize Abigail or I could have picked up Mischa at BWI? And then to top it all off, you tell her she reminds you of your  _sister_. Just wow.” Muffy yips at her feet in agreement.

“I meant it as a compliment. I love my sister,” he says defensively.

“Dr. Du Maurier probably heard that as you think of her  _as_  a sister. Not in a sexy way,” Abigail pipes up, then hands Margot a $20 bill. “You win.”

“What’s that about?” he asks.

“I bet Abigail twenty bucks you couldn’t close the deal with Du Maurier,” Margot says, folding up the twenty and tucking it into her bra.

“She asked  _him_  out. So maybe you should give me back ten.”

“Almost only counts in hand grenades and horseshoes.”

“I should fire you both for insubordination. And gambling on the premises,” he says with a sigh.

Margot saunters over to him with a knowing look in her eye. “I realize I’m not a psychiatrist like Dr. Du Maurier, but it doesn’t take a shrink to figure you out. This is classic self-sabotage, Hannibal.”

“That’s when you screw things up for yourself on purpose. It’s in this month’s  _Cosmo_.” Abigail waves a glossy magazine at him.

“I know what self-sabotage is,” Hannibal says, grumbling. “I just don’t understand why you think I would engage in it. I am a very successful man—I did not get this far in life by sabotaging myself.”

“Maybe the stakes are too high with her. She obviously means more to you than the show ponies you usually fool around with. But hey, I’m a stylist not a shrink.”

“Just think, Hannibal—if Dr. Du Maurier was your girlfriend, I’d bet she’d let you play with her hair all the time. Like everyday.” Abigail’s expression is one of guileless innocence, too sweet to be real.

“I suppose.” Her words make him imagine a long, lazy morning in bed with Bedelia, her golden hair fanned out over his bare chest. A hot shower for the two of them that begins with a sensual shampoo and ends with her legs wrapped around his waist and his mouth at her neck as she comes for him over and over and… _oh_. His tight jeans are suddenly two sizes too tight. He clears his throat awkwardly and says, “I need to go. I’d like to grab a shower before I pick Mischa up at the airport.”

Hannibal disappears into the stock room to grab his things and he hears a female voice—Margot’s—utter, “A cold one, I’m sure” followed by an eruption of girlish laughter. He blushes and thinks of going out to scold them, but doesn’t want to give the Greek chorus of Abigail and Margot any more ammunition than they already have.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Will Bedelia return to the salon? What will happen when Freddie's interview hits the presses? Is a salon war brewing on the horizon? Stay tuned. 
> 
> Thank you for all the lovely kudos and words of encouragement. I am a slow writer and often have other projects, but I still plan to keep hammering away at this one. It's going to be very USTy.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A high society event sends Bedelia back to Hannibal's salon.

Bedelia stands on the pavement outside Imago, warm breath catching in the crisp winter air. It’s barely five-thirty, but daylight savings makes it feel more like eight or nine; it’s nearly pitch-dark already. The lights from the shops give each one a jewel box-like glow and the garland and tinsel strung from the lampposts make the street unusually festive.

The invitation lays heavy in her purse, a lead brick weighing her down. She wouldn’t be here otherwise, but the organizers of the annual Port Haven winter charity gala have left her with no other choice. She’d been avoiding this place—and its owner—since that ill-fated afternoon when she had impulsively asked him to dinner. Hannibal had called a few weeks later and left her a voicemail suggesting they meet for drinks. She’d been in Boston for a conference and had purposely called him back during salon hours to say she was too busy and didn’t know when she’d be free. When it came time for her monthly touch-up, Bedelia had booked an appointment with Margot on Tuesday, Hannibal’s day off.

Margot had hesitated before accepting the appointment; “I’m sure Hannibal could squeeze you in another day.”

Bedelia had insisted that her schedule would only permit Tuesday and Margot had reluctantly agreed. Margot had been perfectly professional, but their appointment left her feeling dissatisfied and more than a little guilty. Her hair looked glossy and chic, but it was all a cold kind of brilliance.

Bedelia had tried to tell herself that was what she wanted, that she did not miss the twinge of desire she felt every time Hannibal touched her and the melting arousal that flowed like lava from the roots of her hair straight to her pelvis. She may have convinced herself in her daylight hours, but her subconscious had other ideas.

Bedelia blushes hotly, cheeks burning like fire even in the cold air, remembering her dream from the night before.

She had come to the salon after hours in a tight black cocktail dress. Underneath her dress she wore fine silk stockings attached to a garter belt and nothing more. Hannibal sat her in his chair and draped the cape about her as always. He picked up his scissors but instead of trimming her split ends, he dropped to his knees before her and began snipping at the thatch of hair between her thighs. When she tried to squirm away, he held her still and asked, like before, “Do you trust me?” She nodded shakily, and he continued giving her a very intimate haircut. His fingers combed through her curls and the cold steel of the scissors brushed against her swollen labia and she felt herself getting wetter and wetter with each snip of the shears. Hannibal put aside his scissors and replaced them with his fingers, delving into her wetness. “You find this very pleasurable,” he said. He bent his head reverently and at the moment his tongue touched her clitoris, she woke up in her own bed—alone, aroused, and unspeakably frustrated.

Bedelia bites her lip and breathes deeply. She’s tempted to turn round and head for home, but the gilt edge of the gala invitation stings her like a rebuke from inside the open maw of her purse. Willing herself to be as cool and brisk as the December air around her, Bedelia pushes open Imago’s heavy glass and mahogany door.

Bedelia is struck first by the heated, humid air of the salon and then by the distinct, unpleasant aroma of cheap aftershave. It smells like something with a ship on the bottle, utterly out of place among the crisp botanicals Hannibal favors for his shampoos. Bedelia soon discovers the source of the odor: Mr. Graham the dog groomer is standing at the reception desk, chatting somewhat animatedly with Abigail and Margot.

He waves a stack of flyers at Margot, done up in a lurid chartreuse advertising “The Chesapeake Clipper Salon for Dogs” in block letters colored in a plaid that matches his flannel shirt. “Do you think I could put up some posters? Maybe in the window or behind the desk?”

Abigail and Margot exchange a significant look. The flyers do not match Hannibal’s tastes—or anyone else’s for that matter. “Maybe you could leave a few at the desk,” Margot says with a wince.

“Did you make them yourself?” Abigail asks.

“Yup. This is my design,” Will answers with a boyish kind of “aw shucks” grin.

Margot quirks an eyebrow. “You say that a lot.”

“Yeah,” Abigail chimes in. “The first time was cute, but now it’s getting kinda weird.”

“Oh,” Will says, suitably chastened. He turns and suddenly notices Bedelia. “Here, have a flyer. There’s a couple of coupons on the bottom and everything. I’m offering a multiple dog discount.”

Bedelia represses a shudder at the thought she has somehow been mistaken for a dog person. A multiple dog person. “Thank you,” she says coolly, tucking the flyer away into her purse, vowing to toss it out at the first available opportunity.

Will Graham nods at her and waves goodbye to Margot and Abigail. A minute after he leaves, Margot leaps into action, spritzing the room with a lemon and verbena spray in an attempt to dispel the lingering aroma of Will’s cologne. She then cracks one of the front windows for good measure.

“Nice man. Strange, but nice. Hannibal gave him a haircut, but I wish he’d introduced him to a better quality of aftershave.” Will’s hair had looked shorter and neater than the last time she was here; it was an improvement. “Dr. Du Maurier, how can I help you?” Margot asks.

“Is Hannibal here? I was hoping to speak with him.”

Margot and Abigail exchange a second knowing look, causing Bedelia to wonder exactly how much Hannibal’s assistants suspect about the strange career of their courtship.

“He’s in the back. You caught him at just the right time—he’s about to go home. I’ll go fetch him. Just wait here. ” Margot turns and disappears behind a velvet curtain into the salon’s mysterious backstage.

Bedelia waits patiently, trying very hard not to feel like a teenage girl pining after the boy she has a crush on. It doesn’t help that Abigail is only pretending to read her magazine and keeps stealing glances to look at her when she thinks Bedelia won’t notice.

After the fifth time, Bedelia catches her and stares Abigail down. “Is there something you wanted to ask me?”

Abigail turns bright pink, but still manages to hold Bedelia’s gaze. “I was only wondering…how do you feel about a man in leather?”

“Excuse me?” Bedelia asks, taken-aback.

“Just asking,” Abigail says saucily, flipping her hair over her shoulder.

The reason for Abigail’s strange question becomes apparent when Hannibal strides out from behind the curtain. He is covered from head to toe in black leather, a motorcycle helmet tucked under his arm. His pants, she can’t help noticing, leave very little to her imagination. He walks toward her and clasps her hand in his. “Dr. Du Maurier. What a pleasant surprise.”

Bedelia tries to regain her cool composure, more difficult now that the temperature of the salon has seemingly climbed nine or ten degrees. “I am sorry to come by unannounced, but I…I have a favor to ask of you.”

His eyes register intrigue. “How can I be of service?”

Bedelia retrieves the gilt-edged invitation from her purse. “Port Haven, the psychiatric hospital, is having its annual gala next weekend. Normally, I just send a check, but I have been told in no uncertain terms by my colleagues that I must attend.” Here is where she finds herself blushing. It’s not that she’s not proud of her accomplishments, but she would hate to be seen as a braggart thirsting for praise. “It would seem I’m being given an award from the patients and staff for my contributions to the Baltimore psychiatric community.”

“That is wonderful news. And well deserved, I am sure.” Hannibal beams back at her, delighted.

“Yes, well, I realize it is very last minute, but I was hoping you would do my hair. It is an important honor, and I’d like to look my best.”

Hannibal looks at her for a moment then calls over his shoulder, “Abigail reschedule all my clients for next Saturday afternoon and evening.” He pats her hand. “Done.”

“Thank you. You really don’t have to.”

“Nonsense. You support me as a stylist, and a business owner, and as a human being. I want to be supportive of you.” He begins to comb through the long strands of her hair, over and over, and Bedelia stands spellbound. She is entranced and she wonders again about his interest in her beyond the professional. There is such a spark every time they meet; it casts a glow around them that’s almost visible. She stands there lost in the moment with him, until it is shattered by the sound of the salon door being slammed open.

“Hannibal, how _dare_ you!”

Bedelia turns around to see a livid looking Frederique Chilton stalking toward them. She recognizes him vaguely from his tacky advertisements plastered all over the city. He wears his hair in long, beachy waves. His metallic print shirt is open practically to the navel, revealing his waxed chest and fake tan. He looks like the hero on the cover of a romance novel; a very _bad_ romance novel.

Hannibal steps toward him. “Frederick,” he says cordially. “To what do I owe the honor of this visit?”

“Oh, don’t pretend you don’t know what you’ve done, Hannibal. I just read your interview with TattleCurl. Did you honestly say my customers would be better off going to SuperCuts?” He brandishes a rolled up magazine in Hannibal’s face like a sword. “I’ve had bad reviews before…but this, _this_ was quantifiably bitchy!”

Hannibal looks like he is trying very hard not to laugh; his amusement is obvious. “I said no such thing. You know how Freddie Lounds can be. She must have twisted my words. Nothing sells like drama.”

Chilton, not at all mollified, steps closer. “You think you’re _so_ special, God’s gift, with your pretentious formulas and fussy European aesthetics. What you think is classy is really just another word for _old_ , Hannibal. I mean, look at this tired peroxide soccer mom you have here.” He turns to Bedelia. “Anyone can tell her hair is fifty percent cheap extensions.” He reaches out and snatches at Bedelia’s hair, hard.

“Don’t touch me!” she yells, recoiling in pain.

Hannibal leaps at him like a hyena. He pulls Chilton’s hand away and begins to crush it in his fist. Chilton’s eyes begin to water. “Apologize to Dr. Du Maurier.”

“Sorry!” he yelps.

Hannibal squeezes harder. His eyes have gone dark and cold. “Tell her how beautiful she looks. Tell her she is the most beautiful woman you’ve ever seen.”

“You’re the most…beautiful…woman…I’ve ever seen.”

Hannibal releases Chilton who doubles over in agony. “If you ever touch one of my clients again, Frederick, you won’t have fingers left to hold a pair of scissors. Is that understood?”

Chilton whimpers back and nods.

“Now get out.” Hannibal’s voice is a quiet roar.

His eyes track Chilton like a predator’s as he backs away and leaves the salon.

Margot lets out a deep sigh of relief after he’s gone. “Thought you were about to go all Sweeney Todd on Chilton there for a second.”

Hannibal’s face is still white with rage. It’s the fury of a patient man and it’s both frightening and arousing to her. “He’d have it coming.” He turns to face her and his manner is suddenly all warm gentlemanly concern. He places his hand on her back protectively, drawing her close. “I am so sorry. Are you all right?”

Bedelia tentatively touches the sore spot on her scalp. A few blonde strands fall away in her hand—Chilton had actually yanked hard enough to pull them out by the roots. “I’m fine.”

Hannibal frowns and peers at her hair with clinical concern. “Fortunately Frederick did not do much damage. Do you want to call the police? His behavior toward you certainly counts as grounds for assault.”

Bedelia smoothes her hair. “It would hardly be worth the trouble. I merely wish to never see the man again.” She aims for her usual cut-glass haughtiness, but her voice sounds tremulous even to her own ears.

“Abigail, will you please get Dr. Du Maurier a glass of brandy? You’ll find it in the cabinet next to the refrigerator in the break room.” Hannibal reaches out to stroke her hair and she reflexively flinches. She doesn’t mean to; she can’t help it. “Would you allow me to fix your hair? Complimentary, of course.”

“It’s kind of you to offer, but I believe my hair has seen enough attention for one day.” The idea of someone touching her over-sensitive scalp right now is unthinkable.

Abigail returns with the brandy. He hands the snifter to her. “Drink up, Doctor. It’s medicinal.” She does and she can feel it start to calm her, a spark of warmth kindled in her belly that brightens the world around her. “Perhaps there is something else I can offer you—a facial or a manicure?”

The brandy has started to work its magic as has the magnetism of Hannibal’s presence. It is very hard to say no to him, and she’s not even sure she wants to. She knows Imago offers other services, but she’d only ever gotten her hair done. Lying prone in the dark while Hannibal moisturizes and massages her face is too…provocative…to her tastes. “A manicure would be lovely. If you’re sure it’s not too much trouble.”

Hannibal smiles at her and takes her lightly by the fingertips, escorting her toward an unfamiliar corner of the salon. He removes her coat and snaps for Abigail to hang it up. “I do not wish to impose upon your generosity. You were about to go home.”

“Actually, you are doing me a favor. I am considering adding nail services to Imago’s menu. You can be my guinea pig.” He gestures for her to take a seat and reads the nervous expression on her face. “I assure you I am fully certified in all aspects of cosmetology.”

“I did not mean to question your expertise,” Bedelia says, removing her leather gloves and the delicate gold wristwatch she wears on her left hand.

“Of course, I will most likely not be performing manicures myself, except for very special clients who request me,” he says with a wink, setting out a bowl of warm water and a set of manicurist’s tools. “I put out an advertisement for a nail technician and have narrowed it down to two candidates—Misters Price and Zeller. They are both eminently qualified and come as a match set, so I suppose I will have to hire them both. But you will give me a chance to try out the samples I have been sent before we officially expand our business.” As Hannibal talks, he takes her hands in his, turning them over thoughtfully. He uncorks a bottle and begins to rub a creamy honeysuckle-scented lotion into her hands and arms. He kneads her small hands inside his larger ones; it is exquisitely intimate. She’s not sure whether it’s the brandy or the feeling of his touch, but once again he’s managed to ignite a fire inside her core that threatens to melt her down like liquid gold.

“I’m sure your clients will appreciate the convenience of having a manicurist here,” she manages to say, her voice more breathy than businesslike. He stops his massage and Bedelia swallows a whimper that is half-need and half-relief. He gestures for her to soak her hands in the water.

“And where do you usually go for nail services, Doctor?”

“I don’t. I do my own nails.” She finds it oddly soothing.

Hannibal nods, impressed. “You have done a fine job, but I believe we can do better.” He takes her left hand in his and gently begins to push back her cuticles, softened by the lotion and the water. He chuckles a bit to himself as he works.

“What’s so amusing?”

“You will forgive me for saying so, but I am not surprised to learn you do your own nails. You strike me as remarkably self-sufficient.” The way he says it, Bedelia is not sure he means the words as a compliment.

“What is the problem with self-sufficiency? I enjoy my independence, Hannibal.”

“Too much, perhaps.” He looks up from her hands and holds her gaze. “It’s nice when we have someone to take care of us, to pamper us—not because we need them to, but because we want them to.”

Bedelia swallows and looks away. “I suppose,” she says neutrally, unnerved by how unnaturally perceptive he can be at times. It has been a long time since she has allowed someone to take care of her—she did not like to think she wore her need so transparently.

He’s finished with her cuticles and has picked up a nail file. “Square, round, or oval?” he asks.

“Surprise me,” she says again, teasing.

He takes her hand in his and gently brushes her knuckles with his thumb; she shivers. He doesn’t kiss her fingertips, but he looks like he wants to. “We’ll keep them oval, then. I think it suits you.”

He files and buffs each nail meticulously, one by one. There is not much work to be done as she always keeps her nails looking neat and professional. Each time he gently bends a fingertip to shape the nail it sends an electric surge of pleasure down her spine and straight to her center. He performs his task with an intensity that quite takes her breath away. It’s similar to what he has always done with her hair, but this time she can actually see it. The attention, the microscopic focus—it’s unbelievably arousing. She wonders what it would be like to have those clever hands tend to the more sensitive parts of her anatomy, imagines two, three, _four_ of those fingers plunged deep inside of her while his other hand massages her scalp and toys with her hair. She moans a little, unable to help it.

Hannibal’s eyes snap up, instantly curious. “Is everything all right?”

“I’m fine,” she says tightly, using her free hand to polish off the last of the brandy he’s given her.

He smiles and she swears he knows, but he says nothing. The attraction she has tried so hard to resist churns and brews between them, a gathering thunderstorm threatening to break.

The tension is momentarily diffused by the sound of girlish laughter from the other end of the salon. Bedelia turns and spies Margot coquettishly playing with the hair of a familiar brunette. “That looks like my colleague Alana Bloom. I didn’t realize she came here.” Bedelia did not recognize her with her new hairstyle; Alana has chopped off her flowing dark hair into a dramatic chin-length bob.

A strange, bemused expression plays out behind Hannibal’s dark eyes. “Dr. Bloom used to be my client, but decided she preferred Margot’s…technique…more.”

Bedelia gets the distinct impression Hannibal is not referring solely to Margot’s skills as a hairdresser. As if to confirm her suspicions, Margot bends down to kiss Alana thoroughly upon the lips. “I see.” She makes a mental note to inquire after Hannibal’s “technique” the next time she runs into Alana.

“No hard feelings. I trained Margot, so my ego is not bruised altogether much. Though, of course, I would never let you go without a fight, Doctor.”

He’s referring to last month; she owes him an apology. “Margot is very skilled, but her work is not to my taste. You’re the only one for me.” The words come out, more revealing than she had intended.

If he’s pleased by that statement, she really can’t tell. Hannibal retrieves a small glass bottle of polish and places it on the table. It’s a deep scarlet, the bottle marked with the unmistakable silver D of the House of Dior. “I know you don’t usually wear color,” he says, “but perhaps you would oblige me? I’m curious to see how it looks.”

She can’t remember the last time she wore red polish. She’d always considered it vulgar, but perhaps her tastes could change. “I’m in your hands.”

He smiles a bit and bends to dip the tiny brush in the polish, covering her thumbnail with rouge-colored varnish. Despite the smallness of the brush and the largeness of Hannibal’s hands, he never so much as falters, each nail painted with flawless exactitude. The image of him—this large man in his leather jacket painting her nails—is so incongruous she has to laugh.

Now it is Hannibal’s turn to ask. “What?”

“Just you…painting my nails, dressed in leather. It’s quite the juxtaposition. But not an unpleasant one.”

He takes her words in good humor. “Ah, that is your American narrow-mindedness speaking. Why is it that if I were to paint houses or cars I would be considered perfectly masculine, but I paint a woman’s nails and that somehow effeminizes me? A man who cuts lawns for a living is macho, but a man who cuts hair is not? It’s all the same task. A stylist is an artist…your hair, your manicure…that is art you get to live in, every single day.” He pulls back and sets aside the polish. “We will let these dry and then do a second coat.”

“You have a point. It is unfortunate our culture is so black and white. I admire you for blurring the lines,” she says, quite genuinely. It’s part of what makes him so attractive—the allure of the best of both worlds. “How was your visit with your sister?”

“Wonderful.” Hannibal’s entire expression brightens, like he’s been struck by sunlight. He pulls out his smartphone from his pocket, flips through the screens and shows her a picture of him and a tall, willowy blonde taken in front of the White House. Mischa is unmistakably Parisian, effortlessly fashionable, with long hair that falls past her shoulders in long choppy layers “This is Mischa. My baby sister.”

She has her brother’s dark eyes and sharp cheekbones. The girl is ageless—she could anywhere between twenty-eight and forty. “I see the family resemblance.”

“I took her to DC and to New York. She finds Baltimore,” Hannibal hunts for the correct word, “provincial.” Bedelia cannot argue that. “Next time she wishes to go to the west coast.” He pauses for a moment, then adds, “Mischa is a surgeon. That is why I said you remind me of her.”

“Oh?” With her looks, Bedelia would have guessed supermodel.

“She is clever and ruthless. She has the temperament for it. I never did.” Hannibal looks quite bashful as he says this. “She took my place in medical school in Paris after I dropped out.”

This is all news to Bedelia. “You never told me you studied to be a doctor.”

He takes her hand in his again and begins the second coat; she can feel the surgeon’s touch now, shocked that she never noticed it before. “I was embarrassed. I did not want you to think of me as a failure.”

He’s so open and transparent before her; it touches her unexpectedly. “You are by no means a failure, Hannibal. Look at all you have built. You’re far more successful than many of my colleagues in the medical field. What’s more, you have a gift.” She wishes she could say the same for many doctors of her acquaintance; the majority of them were in it for the money, not out of care for patients or genuine passion.

His eyes are the chocolately-brown of a puppy dog, a vulnerability that seems so out of place with the confident man she knows, but one that is unmistakably endearing. “It means a great deal to me that you think so. That was part of the reason I left—I found medicine to be all exercise and no art.”

She remembers medical school, years of rote memorization and rigid protocol. “I’ll not dispute that.”

The second coat has dried and he is finishing up by brushing her nails with a glossy topcoat. She’s saddened to discover their brief interlude of intimacy has passed so quickly; she’s missed him.

He guides her hands beneath a small portable hand dryer. “Mischa thinks I should move to New York or back to Paris. She thinks I am wasted here.” Hannibal’s voice and expression are hard to read.

The her heart drops to earth, sinking like a stone. She’s not ready to lose him before anything’s even begun. “I can see her point…it may be selfish of me to say so, but I would hate for you to leave.”

He grins at her, unexpectedly broad. “I’m not leaving, Dr. Du Maurier. What is the expression? I like being a large fish in a smaller pond.”

“I’m relieved. It would be difficult to commute back and forth across the Atlantic for a cut and color.”

“In the bigger cities, it is all about the flash and not the substance…celebrities and the like…cultivating one’s brand. Here I can focus on my art.” He reaches out to caress her hair, very gently. “I am fortunate that Baltimore provides me with a lovely canvas like yourself.”

She smiles back at him, momentarily disarmed. The dryer clicks off and she removes her hands. Her nails are impeccably varnished, covered in a glossy scarlet polish, red as blood. Perfect for scratching down a man’s back. Bedelia wonders if that’s what he intended.

“Belissima,” Hannibal pronounces, pressing the newly opened bottle of polish into her hands. “For you, in case you wish to touch them up. Though I hope you will let me have the privilege of doing them from time to time.”

She protests gently. “Hannibal, I can’t.”

He hears none of it, merely wraps his arms about her shoulders and guides her toward the door. “Consider it a small restitution on behalf of Frederick Chilton.”

He’s tucked her coat about her and they’re standing before the door. It’s like that awkward moment after a first date, waiting to kiss and be kissed. “So, I’ll see you next Saturday.” She reaches into her purse and hands him a letterpress ivory business card. “My address.”

He tucks the card into the front pocket of his leather jacket. “I’m looking forward to it.” He makes it sound more like a date than an appointment. Bedelia’s heart unexpectedly skips a beat.

“Good night, Hannibal. And thank you,” she says softly.

There is no kiss, but there is next Saturday and another chance, perhaps, to finally get it right.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to everyone who has voiced their appreciation and enthusiasm for this story! You have all been very patient. I hope the next (and possibly final?) chapter will be along soon.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The tension is heightened as Bedelia and Hannibal prepare for the gala.

Hannibal enters the salon around ten the next morning to set up before customers arrive for the day. Margot is already there, an evening gown in blood-orange crepe tucked beneath her chin, twirling for Abigail’s approval.

“Alana’s going to love it. Especially the neckline,” Abigail says, drawing attention to the plummeting v at the front of the gown.

“That was the idea.” Margot turns to him. “What’s your expert opinion?”

“The color suits you. The lines of the gown are crisp and modern. I would suggest a sleek, simple chignon drawn away from the face so that you may go bold with your makeup and jewelry.” He takes off his jacket and hands it to Abigail to hang up in the break room, then proceeds to run his eyes over today’s appointments. “I take it you will be accompanying Alana to the Port Haven gala?”

Margot smiles, content as a cat with a bowl of cream. She tucks her gown back in its long dark garment bag for safekeeping. “Will I be seeing you there on the arm of Dr. Du Maurier?”

Hannibal drums his fingertips on the appointment ledger, hoping his newly wounded feelings do not betray him. He was happy enough last night to simply have her come back and ask for his help again—but now it suddenly feels as if playing the part of her hairdresser is no longer enough. He looks at Margot, so secure and happy, Alana’s love wrapped around her like an elegant silk scarf. There is a tightness in his chest, a burning he recognizes as envy. He wants what they have. “She asked me to do her hair, Margot, that’s all.”

“I wonder if she’s got a date,” Abigail muses.

It’s like he’s been doused in cold water, the tender intimacy of the night before shrunken and crippled by the harsh light of day. “That’s none of our business,” he tells her tersely, retreating to the comfort of his station and the security of his work. He begins by setting out his tools on a clean bay-colored towel, shears, comb and brush all at precise right angles to the edge.

The soft leather footfalls of Margot’s boots follow him. “I did a little fact-finding for you on your crush,” she says.

“And?” He’s doing his best to sound disinterested, but this morning is best is not very good.

Margot folds her arms and leans against the exposed brick wall. “Nothing. Nada. There’s no proof that she’s seeing someone, but there’s no proof that she’s _not_. According to Alana, Bedelia Du Maurier is as much a mystery to her peers as she is to you and me. A riddle wrapped in an enigma wrapped in a silk blouse.”

He merely nods. Margot’s words are less than encouraging. “We’re getting low on mousse. Have Abigail do an inventory today.”

“Hey.” Margot cautiously lays a hand on his shoulder. Her pretty blue eyes are soft with concern. “Do you want me to get you a ticket to the gala? I may not live in the big house anymore, but I’m still a Verger.”

He’s touched; he often is when others see him and the feelings he is so used to hiding behind eccentricity and bravado. “It’s a nice thought, Margot. But I don’t think I’d belong there. These are society people—I’m just a hairdresser.”

“ _Just_ a hairdresser—you own half the block! You drive a Bentley!”

He skirts away from her, bustling around the salon, twigging everything until it is brought precisely into order. “It’s not just that. These people are well-educated. Professionals.”

“Here he goes again. I’m just a poor immigrant, I came here with nothing, blah blah blah,” Abigail says with a roll of her eyes.

Margot shakes her head, perfect coral-colored lips fixed into a tiny frown. “That’s it, isn’t it? You think you’re not good enough for her.”

He staggers back, visibly hurt and angry. “Bedelia…Dr. Du Maurier…has made it perfectly clear she is not interested in me as anything other than her stylist. I asked her out for drinks—as _you_ suggested Margot—and then she cancelled her appointment with me. What other conclusion can I reasonably draw? If she wanted me as her date, she would ask me.”

“I’m not so sure she would, Hannibal. She’s proud. And stubborn.”

“Like me,” he says with a half-hearted laugh. “So perhaps that is for the best. We are too alike.”

“Opposites attracting is overrated in my opinion.”

Hannibal breathes deeply through his nose, calming himself so that he may face his other clients with the amount of charm and professionalism he is known to command. “Margot, may I ask why are you so invested in what happens between me and Dr. Du Maurier?”

“If I said I just want you to be happy, would you believe me?” she answers, almost flippantly.

“Not entirely,” he says through thinned lips.

“Well, I _do_ want you to be happy, Hannibal. But truthfully, I cut cable a few months ago to save money and you two are better than a telenovela.”

Abigail looks up from the reception desk. “Actually I think they’re more like one of those Masterpiece Theater things where everyone is too restrained to speak their feelings.”

“She’s right you know.” Margot grabs him by the shoulders and gives him a playful shake. “It’s the twenty-first century, Hannibal. Tell the lady how you feel. Use your words.”

“Call her and say you want to take her to the ball. You can pick her up on your motorcycle,” Abigail urges.

Hannibal is too flustered for words; he’s a lion unexpectedly cornered by two leopardesses. “I doubt Dr. Du Maurier would like to ride to a formal event on my motorcycle.”

“Well, from the look she gave you the other day when you were in your leathers, I’d say she’d like a ride on your _something_ ,” Abigail says with a saucy flick of her brown hair.

His face flushes, desperately trying to get the image of Bedelia astride his Triumph, astride _him_ , out of his head. Margot looks like she is about to have an aneurysm from trying not to laugh. “Look what you’ve done to her. She was such a sweet girl when she started working here. You’re a very bad influence, Margot.” He frowns at both of them, giving them both his most imposing expression and the girls soon school their faces into demure submission. “Now if you’re both quite done with the autopsy on my private life, I thought we might discuss the matter of Frederick Chilton.”

Margot cocks her head, a gleam in her eye. “Revenge, Hannibal?”

Hannibal lets his upper lip curl, runs his thumb down the edge of the blade of his shears, satisfied they are sharp enough to give him a paper-thin cut. “Are you still acquainted with that lovely woman from the Health Department?” he asks.

“Tricia?” Now it is Margot’s turn to blush at the name of her former paramour. “Well, I haven’t seen her for a few months, but I’d like to think we parted as friends. Why? Do you think Chilton’s in violation of some kind of OSHA regulation?”

“I’m almost entirely certain he’s not. But he’s about to be.”

Margot and Abigail lean in, wolfish hunger on both their faces. The air in the salon grows humid with conspiracy as he lays out his plan.

*****

Bedelia’s heart quickens at the sound of the doorbell’s chime and not with surprise. A quick glance at the glowing blue letters of her digital alarm clock tell her that Hannibal has arrived at precisely five on the dot and no later. She would expect nothing less of someone of his fastidious nature.

Padding through the house in slippers, a long silk robe covering her evening gown, she is hyper-aware of the way the smooth, satiny material clings to her breasts and swishes between her legs. There is only a painfully thin barrier between him and the flesh that seems to grow in longing for him every time they meet. For a moment she questions the wisdom of inviting him across the threshold of her home, behind the stone and bronze walls that have been her sanctuary and her solitude.

The doorbell rings again and the time for contemplation is over.

“Hannibal,” she says simply, as if she were greeting one of her patients. “Please come in.”

He smiles at her and enters her home, dark eyes taking in in the high ceilings and abstract art but saying nothing. He’s wearing his leather jacket again and some girlish part of her swoons internally.

“May I get you something? A glass of water? Some wine?”

He laughs, a soft sound. “That is usually my line. No thank you, I’m fine.”

Bedelia smiles tightly and draws her robe closed at the neck. “I suppose the best location for this is vanity in my bedroom. If you’ll follow me.”

He falls behind her and she tries to quiet the tiny ember of excitement glowing in her belly. She’s imagined taking this path with him before, and in some of her more passionate fantasies, they never even reached their final destination. She grasps her wrist tightly, trying to dispel the image of him hoisting her up in the air and taking her against the rosewood console table in the hallway, and leads him into her bedroom.

She takes a seat at her vanity table. Her immaculately made bed looms behind them, seemingly taking up more space than usual. “Will this do?”

Hannibal nods and begins to unpack tools from a black leather carrying case. “The electrical outlet?”

“To the left near the floor,” she says, willing herself to look away, deliberately choosing not to ogle his shapely rear filling out tight black jeans as he bends down. It’s just the silly fantasy of a woman who has been alone for too long, she tells herself. Alone so long she has mistaken the impersonal touch of her flirtatious hairdresser for actual intimacy. Pathetic really.

“Bedelia,” Hannibal asks with concern, “is everything all right?”

“Of course,” she says, hiding her sadness behind her familiar marble mask, chastising herself for ever letting it slip. “I’m merely preoccupied about this evening. I don’t usually go in for such affairs.”

His hands rest comfortably and warmly on her shoulders, lingering long enough to give them a reassuring squeeze. “I’m sure you will do splendidly. More importantly, you will be the most magnificent creature in the room.”

Bedelia smiles weakly. “Beauty is its own kind of armor, I suppose.”

Hannibal lines up hairspray and mousse, brush and curling iron, the tools of his trade, presented like a still life on her vanity. “You are among your colleagues and admirers tonight. Surely there is no need for armor among those who are honoring you with an award.”

Bedelia purses her lips, tasting something bitter that isn’t there. “You’ve clearly never met my colleagues. Part of the pleasure they take in raising someone up is the joy of seeing them fall.”

He drapes the cape about her shoulders and it settles upon her like a whisper. Bedelia is at once thankful for the way it covers her and resentful of it, too.

Hannibal lifts a lock of hair and begins the process of brushing it out from crown to end. It’s so relaxing, the feel of his warm hand gliding through her hair, the tug of the real horsehair bristles as they caress each strand. He brushes smoothly, rhythmically and she can feel her pulse lower, her breathing slow into calm regular breaths, almost like a cat’s deep contented purr.

“Did your mother make you brush a hundred strokes before bed every night?” he asks her, playful twinkle in his eye.

“No. She didn’t believe in encouraging vanity.” She catches his eye in the mirror; she feels he is content, too, and that he is deliciously drawing out the procedure, savoring every brushstroke. “Did you brush your sister’s hair?”

Hannibal closes his eyes and smiles, a sweet smile of memory, as he brushes, fine soothing strokes that leave her hair gleaming in the soft lamplight. “I did. After our mother died, it fell to me to plait her hair every morning and brush it every night. It was our favorite time of day. I suppose Mischa was my first client.”

She feels a twinge of tenderness for him—she can see him then, having to be both mother and brother to his sister. She had not known he had been orphaned so young, like something out of a fairy tale. Her professional curiosity is certainly piqued, but Hannibal is not her patient. He is here today to render a service to her and not the other way around.

Hannibal finishes, one long last lingering pass, golden hair falling from his brush like a waterfall of gold. He sets the brush aside and retrieves a curling iron, the dark sleek lines of the instrument making it seem more like a weapon than an appliance made for beauty. He’s never used one on her before—she hadn’t attempted to curl her hair in years, preferring her own natural waves over something structured and artificial.

He slips a length of her hair between the hot tongs of the iron and winds it close to the side of her head. She can feel the heat of it and flinches slightly, but forces herself to hold still.

Hannibal releases her hair, unwinding until all that is left is a thick golden spiral. He begins the process again with another lock of hair. “I realize we did not discuss your hairstyle for the gala. We have come to the part of this evening where once again you will have to trust me.”

“I did ask you to surprise me.” She had sent him text messages with a picture of her gown and the jewelry she planned to wear. She doesn’t like to dwell on the giddiness she felt waiting for him to text back, the way it made her body hum with a kind of teenage excitement in a way it never had even when she was an adolescent.

“Yes, you did,” Hannibal says, warm and bemused. “I shall give you a hint: it’s an updo with a bit of Old Hollywood glamour.”

Bedelia merely nods, drinking in the sight of him working on her hair, the feel of the heat of the curling iron near her neck, somehow excited by the fact he could burn her if he wasn’t careful. They are literally playing with fire and she can’t ever remember being more aroused. She has no idea what this says about her—about _him_ and the way he has of melting down her icy boundaries, drawing her farther and farther away from her comfort zone until she is in some new undiscovered country.

He makes his way around her head, sectioning, curling, and releasing. Each action feels a thousand times more intimate when done within the space of her home. There is no gentle background noise of Margot chatting with customers or Bach drifting softly over the sound system. No punctuated interruptions of the phone ringing or the chime of the door. No other eyes watching them, demanding they be on their best behavior. There is only him and her and her hair, alone in her bedroom of all places. The tension between them is so thick, Bedelia could almost choke on it.

Hannibal catches her licking her lips. “Are you thirsty? Shall I fetch a glass of water?”

“No, no.” She was certainly thirsty, but not for water. “I was only thinking of what a pleasure it is to watch you work. Like watching Bernini sculpt life out of marble. Or Mozart compose at his harpsichord,” she answers smoothly, her voice conveying a breathlessness that sounds too much like arousal.

Hannibal’s eyes melt at the compliment. “You flatter me too much,” he answers, his tone anything but demure. His hand reaches out to fluff a bouncing curl—it springs back in a gravity defying coil.

The ringlets are quite tight around her head and Bedelia looks not at all like herself—she can’t imagine how he is going to transform her hair into the elegant updo he has promised. Slowly, he plunges his fingers into her hair up to the knuckle and Bedelia has to press her lips together to keep from moaning aloud. His hands pull and sculpt and twist and she savors the current of electricity that runs straight to her pelvis every time he gently tugs on the roots of her hair. Her nipples are rock hard, erect enough to show through two layers of silk and the nylon cape, so aroused and aching for touch it borders on painful. He gathers the curls into an asymmetrical twist near the left side of her head, gathering and twisting and turning until he has gotten the shape he desires, pinning the curls into place one by one. At the last, he slides a glittering rhinestone comb in; the teeth scrape against her scalp deliciously. He covers her eyes with the palm of his hand to protect her from the sting of the styling spray and Bedelia must fight the urge to brush her nose against his fingers and slip them inside her mouth.

He uncovers her eyes and holds up a large hand mirror behind her head so she can see the full effect of his design. Soft rippling waves frame her face as the sleek line of the updo elongates her neck. The rhinestones sparkle like diamonds, accenting her curls. The look is hard and polished from one angle, soft and come-hither from another. It is not hard to imagine herself as a star of the silver screen.

“Does this meet your approval?” he asks.

She touches the nape of her neck, teasing the baby fine strands there. “You have outdone yourself.”

Hannibal inclines his head graciously, a maestro bowing at the end of a concert.

He draws aside the cape and she is about to rise from her chair, but he stills her with a wag of his index finger. “Your shoes?” he asks.

The rational, guarded part of her brain thinks he can’t possibly be serious, but the spell of his presence has her so relaxed and mesmerized, she answers without a thought. “In the box on the settee.”

He retrieves them wordlessly, and bends down on one knee with all the grace of a trained courtier. He holds out his empty hand and she raises her leg slightly so that he may gently pluck the slipper from her foot and slide a d’Orsay pump in velvet ultramarine on in its place. He repeats the process for her left shoe, taking care to fasten the gold leather band firmly around her ankle. In that moment she is Cinderella, a prince at her feet.

He holds out his hand again and guides her up from the chair. Bedelia is steady on her feet, the extra four inches of height giving her a regal posture that steels her spine. Without being asked, because she knows he longs to _see_ her, she unties the sash at her waist and lets her robe fall to the floor, dramatically revealing the sleek rippling satin lines of her gown, the color of midnight on a moonlit night.

The genius of Hannibal’s design is more fully apparent now, the way the asymmetry of her hair mirrors the flowing bias cut of her gown, the rhinestone accent of the comb complementing the diamond studs adorning her ears. Her shoulders are bare and while the neckline is modest, the gown is cut quite low in the back. She turns for him, a glass ballerina in the music box of her boudoir. His dark eyes look on, feasting.

“ _Belissima_ ,” he pronounces. From anyone else it would sound pretentious, but from him, perfectly natural.

“Thank you,” she says. “A credit to your exquisite handiwork.” Bedelia is suddenly uncertain of what to do. Some primal part of her would like nothing more than to have him throw her down on the bed and ravish her for the next few hours, her colleagues and their silly awards be damned. Feeling dizzy atop her heels, she tries to excuse herself. “If you’ll just let me finish getting ready.”

“Of course,” he says, already bending to put away his tools. The loss of his eyes on her body makes her shiver with disappointment, the sun hiding behind the clouds.

Bedelia retreats into her bathroom, smoothing out her dress, dabbing jasmine-scented perfume on her wrists and, impulsively, in the valley of her décolletage. She reapplies her lipstick one last time. It’s a wine-dark rouge—so much more predatory, and well _sexual_ , than the usual rosy brown she wears for day. Her eyelashes feel heavy under the noirish weight of her mascara. Bedelia looks in the mirror and has the eerie sensation of having a Hitchcockian femme fatale look back at her, another woman from a different life.

She exits her master suite to find Hannibal waiting patiently for her in the foyer, bags packed and jacket zippered. Now is the moment when she pays him for his services, tips him generously, and they return to their separate lives. She reaches for her purse and the checkbook inside. “I can’t thank you enough for the transformation you’ve wrought. And on such short notice. How much do I owe you?”

Hannibal holds up his hand in protest. “Your money is no good here, Bedelia. It’s on the house.”

“Hannibal, please, be serious.” Her heart flutters within her chest. If this not a service rendered…then it is a gift, one she does not know if she can accept. She grips her checkbook hard enough so that her nails leave indentations in the peacock blue leather. “I can’t allow you to go unpaid for your time.”

His face falls and he looks visibly wounded at the mention of the transactional nature of their relationship. “We can settle the next time you come in. But not here. Not on such a special evening.”

He steps toward her and Bedelia feels a lump gathering in her throat; the deep dark pools of his eyes have taken on an almost gravitational pull. The desire to have him beside her tonight is riptide strong. A question hums on the edge of her tongue, threatens to spill forth between her rouged lips. But then her head counteracts her heart. She imagines walking into the ballroom tonight with him at her side, the knowing glances and whispered gossip of her colleagues—Bedelia Du Maurier, a woman so desperately lonely she had to ask her hairdresser to escort her. Tears prick again at her eyes and she must fight to hold them in. It’s better for her to go alone. That terrain, at least, is familiar to her.

“Well,” Hannibal begins, eyes downcast, uncharacteristically awkward, “I’m sure your date will be here soon.”

“No date.” Her desire is bruised, a bird dashing itself against the bars of her caged heart. It is becoming harder and harder to smile through the pain. “My self-sufficiency strikes again.”

Without being asked, he picks up the vintage fox fur she has draped across an armchair and tucks it gently about her shoulders. He holds his hands there, pressed against her waist and she can feel his touch burning all the way down to the bone. “Is that really what you want? To be alone?” he whispers, breath hot against her ear.

She turns to face him, trembling, her heart on the verge of cracking open. “Hannibal…I…” She starts but cannot seem to be able to let the words tumble out. She’s climbed up to the edge of the high dive, but can’t ever seem to let go, trust, and jump. At that moment, her phone buzzes in her purse, a temporary reprieve. “I have to go. My driver is here.”

“Of course. I understand.” The intensity in his eyes is enough to break her heart all over again.

She opens the door and he follows her out into the night air where it has already begun to snow. With a brief look at the town car parked in her driveway, she perches up on her high heels and delivers a fleeting, impulsive kiss to Hannibal’s cheek. “I’m sorry,” she tells him, before rushing down the steps toward the car, unwilling to let herself look back.

*****

Hannibal stands there on her front steps, flurries of snow frosting his hair, marble-still as he watches the woman he loves drive off with another man. A man who is a hired chauffeur for the evening and does not even have the distinction of being her date. It would be easier somehow if he knew Bedelia would spend the night in the arms of someone who cherished her the way he does. It hurts him to know that she will have no one there to share in her triumph.

He thinks about the broken, caged look in her eyes, pleading to be rescued from the prison of her own making but too proud to ask. He thinks about what Margot said the other day.

One of them is going to use their words tonight and it seems like the honor will fall to him. He will put aside his own pride, he will make a gesture grand enough to crack the last of Bedelia’s stubborn resolve. He pulls his phone out of his pocket and punches at the screen until he gets the right number. “Margot,” he asks, “does the offer of a ticket to tonight’s gala still stand?”

There is an incoherent high-pitched squeal on the other end of the line

“I will take that as an affirmation.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all so much for all your encouragement. I'm sorry its been such a long wait! 
> 
> I know I am evil to end on a cliffhanger, but stay tuned. Dancing! Revenge! Resolved Sexual Tension!


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A winter's ball and everything after.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here it is, the resolved sexual tension we've all been waiting for.

Bedelia sips her second glass of winter punch—something with vodka and citrus and pear—and longs for something stronger. Scotch perhaps, with a valium chaser. She’s barely been here for two hours, yet it feels like an eternity.

One of the reasons for the tedium is parked to her left, clinging to her like a bearded barnacle. Really, they were going to have to do more for his separation anxiety.

“I don’t know if you can imagine what I was like before I started seeing Dr. Du Maurier here…or maybe you can, since I think some of you passed me on when you realized I was a lost cause,” Franklyn jokes, provoking a hint of nervous laughter from some of his former therapists. “But she seemed to appreciate the challenge. I wouldn’t be the man I am today without her. I can’t think of anyone more deserving of this award.”

There are smiles and appreciative nods from the circle that surrounds her. Franklyn beams. The attention makes her stomach churn. It would be endearing if it hadn’t been going on for the past twenty minutes. “I appreciate your gratitude, but your growth is entirely your own, Franklyn. I cannot take credit for it, nor should any doctor,” she demurs.

“But you really showed me the way. Before I met you, I was always looking to other people to validate me—especially my therapists. I felt small and weak, so I looked for strength outside myself. You taught me how to crush that weakness that I felt,” he says, making a fist and squeezing it hard, as if choking the life out of an invisible baby bird, “and it’s saved me a great deal of trouble.”

There is a titter from the crowd. Alana Bloom turns to her, lips pursed, and asks, “Is that how you see weakness in your patients, Bedelia, as something to be crushed? I think our patients need to be nurtured.”

Bedelia takes a hefty swig of punch. Well, here it is, the rise and fall. So typical. “I would never crush anyone, Alana. I merely encourage my patients to cultivate self-reliance.” She winces a little at her own words—her much vaunted self-reliance has landed her here at this tedious affair alone. How much better the evening might have been had she spent it in Hannibal’s arms, to hell with the gossip and the consequences. “Though, recent circumstances have caused me to re-evaluate my position. Too much self-reliance can at times be a weakness, especially when it prevents a person from experiencing happiness.”

There is a confused murmur from the crowd and Bedelia knows she has said too much. A flush comes to her face, aided by the alcohol. Apropos of nothing, the band strikes up a waltz, opening the dance floor for the evening. Saved by the proverbial bell, or Strauss as the case may be. Couples pair off and take to the center of the floor, and Bedelia is relieved to have attention diverted away from her.

Unfortunately, Franklyn is still dancing in attendance at her elbow, quivering like an overexcited chipmunk. _Oh no_ , she thinks, _not this._

“Dr. Du Maurier,” he begins grandly, “would you do me the honor of a dance?”

She’s nearly tempted to give in—it’s three minutes of dancing with him versus three sessions of therapy processing her rejection. But she really has no desire to find herself in Franklyn’s sweaty-palmed embrace. “Is that wise, Franklyn? I am afraid of doing anything that would upset the…delicate balance…of our patient-psychiatrist relationship. Especially when you are making such splendid progress.”

He is noticeably crestfallen. “But…”

Franklyn doesn’t get to finish voicing his objection, because at that moment a tall dark figure steps between them and lays a hand possessively at the small of her back. “I believe Dr. Du Maurier has promised the first dance of the evening to me,” Hannibal says smoothly.

“Yes,” Bedelia says, stunned to have him appear here, Prince Charming coming to her rescue. “It would be rude of me not to keep my promise.”

Before Franklyn can register another protest, Hannibal has whisked her away to the center of the ballroom. His right hand rests firmly against her back, his left slides to clasp her right. He begins to guide her slowly around the dance floor, and she lets herself follow his lead. It had been a long time since she had shared a waltz with someone, but finishing school was burned in deep.

“I hope you don’t mind me intervening,” he says.

“Not at all. You saved me from a very awkward situation with a patient. I am, however, a bit surprised to see you here.”

“Is it a good surprise or a bad surprise?”

She glances at his tuxedo—clearly a rental but he fills it out nicely, his pectorals defined through the fine white fabric of his shirt. His hair has boyishly fallen into his dark eyes, a look she finds irresistible on him. “A good surprise. A very good surprise.” And then she smiles at him—her true full smile, rarer than diamonds, according to some. The muscles around her mouth feel strange, rusty from disuse—had it really been that long since she had used them to do anything besides frown or smirk?

Hannibal’s own lips smile even more broadly than her own, so warm and happy he seems speechless.

They dance and he is ever so light on his feet. Once she has become accustomed to the rhythm and the movements, he picks up the pace, whirling her around the floor. They never miss a beat and at times spin so quickly her feet nearly forget to touch the ground. But he has her firm and secure in his arms and she feels safer there than she ever thought she could be.

The waltz ends and he twirls her about with a final flourish, letting the dark train of her gown spill on the floor in a flood of watery satin, showing her off for all to see. Bedelia can feel her colleagues’ eyes upon them: curiosity and envy and intrigue waft in her direction like sour perfume. Out of the corner of her eye, she spies Margot wrapped about Alana, trying to catch Hannibal’s attention, giving him a comically obvious thumbs up. Bedelia’s not quite sure if the woman is overjoyed, or if she is having some type of seizure.

The tempo changes into something slow and romantic; “Moon River”—it comes to her at last. He gathers her close, and she drapes her arms about his neck. Hannibal is so tall that even with her heels, he must bend his head in order for them to dance cheek to cheek. Her head seems to fit perfectly against his shoulder, so she rests it there. It’s dreamy and warm and easy, a rare delicacy, one she’s never had before.

“Why did you come, Hannibal?” she asks.

“Because I wanted to be beside you tonight.” He whispers the words carefully into her hair. “And I knew you wanted it, too, but would never ask.”

“The minute I walked into this room without you, I knew I had made a mistake.” She snuggles closer to his chest, breathes in the bay and sage of his cologne overlaid over the starched smell of his rental tux. “I’ve been so very foolish, Hannibal. Can you forgive me?”

“There has been foolishness enough for two,” he admits without rancor. “But perhaps we should not waste any more time.” His eyes take on a mischievous glint and before she knows it, he has pulled her behind the screened off area set aside for the catering staff, her bare back against the paneled wall. He holds her face in both hands and kisses her over and over until she opens her mouth and moans, the small invitation he needs to slip his tongue behind her teeth and possess her mouth. He angles his head and invites her to do the same and she does so with abandon. They are a hurricane of tongues and mouths and hands, pressing and sliding and opening.

They break the kiss at last and she’s breathless and weak and wet. Hannibal’s lips are red; if he is hungry for her, she is starving for him. “Take me home,” she pleads.

His eyes dart back to the party, which is still in full swing. “Are you sure you want to leave so early?”

“Take me home, Hannibal. Now.” Her normally cool voice sounds like a whimper to her own ears. _Take me home before I beg you to ravish me right here._

Hannibal nuzzles her cheek and nips at her ear in a promise of animal lust. “Mine is closer, I believe.”

*

He steals her away in the sumptuous splendor of his Bentley, engine purring quietly as a kitten as they drive through the city streets. They hit far too many stoplights for Bedelia’s taste, but each pause finds him reaching for her, grasping warmly for her fingers, brushing his thumb across her wrist. She swallows every crumb of affection from him whole, ravenous for the main course.

Hannibal pulls up in front of a large brick building, one of the newly renovated industrial loft spaces that have been springing up like weeds throughout the city—this one used to be an oyster cannery. After tossing his keys to the valet, he escorts her inside to the elevator. They are finally alone together again, hands free to roam and tease, and for a moment Bedelia wonders if he is going to have her right there. He smiles at her knowingly and reaches out to caress the hairs at the nape of her neck. Her mouth falls open and the tiniest moan of pleasure escapes.

Hannibal notices and says, “I hope that will be the first of many tonight.”

She shivers, willing for the elevator to climb higher, for the lights to blink faster from one number to the next.

Finally, the elevator door opens to reveal a penthouse suite of high ceilings and exposed brick and large windows overlooking the glittering lights of the harbor. That’s about all Bedelia has the opportunity to take in before Hannibal’s mouth and hands are on her, hot and hungry. Coats are shed, not too ungracefully, and his palms caress the bare skin of her shoulder blades and back. She teeters in her heels, off balance, and just as she is about to steady herself, Hannibal decisively does away with the problem by scooping her up in his arms and carrying her to his bedroom, Tarzan to her Jane.

He deposits her gently on a king-sized bed, and Bedelia feels herself blush all over, her nipples hardening beneath her gown, as he towers above her.

He tosses off his tuxedo jacket and removes his patent leather shoes, joining her on the bed. “I hope you didn’t mind my little display of brute strength.”

“No. Not at all,” she says, half in a trance. Bedelia drinks in the sight of him with her eyes, slow to realize that for the first time she can do more than just look. Tentatively, she reaches out to give his bicep a squeeze through the thin fabric of his dress shirt. It’s so large and meaty she can barely wrap her hand around it. “You’re very strong.”

He captures her waist and circles it with his hands, drawing her closer for a kiss. “And you are light as a feather.” He teases her this time, planting soft butterfly kisses along her jawline and the corner of her mouth, edging closer and closer until she is weak with need of him. She can’t remember the last time she felt so helplessly pliant in a lover’s arms; every muscle is liquid beneath his touch. She kisses him back, needing so much more of him, practically falling into his lap.

His hands roam across her back, searching, and he stops. “Zipper?”

“It’s on the side. Let me.” Reluctantly, she frees himself from his embrace, and tugs down the zipper hidden under her left arm. It’s worth it to see the expression on his face, eyes dark and wide and thirsty, as the satin pools in a puddle on the floor. He cracks an appreciative eyebrow at the sight of her dark bustier and garter belt. A hand slides up her silk-covered thigh, fingering the lace edge. He slips an index finger underneath each garter and unhooks them one by one.

He pulls her into his lap and she lets out a little “ _Oh,_ ” half-pleasure, half-surprise, so he may begin to roll her stockings down one by one. She can feel his hardness pressing up against her thigh and it turns her core molten to know she is having the same effect on him he is having on her. She reaches down and begins to stroke him through his trousers. His cock leaps into her hand and she can feel him warm and pulsing beneath the fabric.

He groans and closes his eyes, gently stilling her. “Not yet,” he says. “You first.”

He finishes pulling off her stockings, taking time to caress her knees with his bare hand. The contact of flesh against flesh is too much but not enough; she wants to feel the whole hot naked length of him on top of her. His gaze skims over the tops of her breasts, quivering in their lace cups, as his hand reaches behind her head to loosen the rhinestone comb from her hair. He plucks all the pins from her hair one by one, and her golden locks tumble down, ruining the style he had so meticulously sculpted just a few hours before. It feels good to have the weight off her head. She tosses her hair back and shakes her curls free.

Hannibal teases the end of a single ringlet with his fingernail. “I think sometimes about the Victorians. To see a lady with her hair down was very intimate for them. How a husband must have felt to see his wife that way, to know that he was the only man who ever saw her so. It is very erotic, I think.”

His hand is threading through the long length of her curls, combing them gently. “Freud would have agreed with you,” she says, voice hoarse with her own arousal.

“Oh? How so?” Bedelia would think he is being nonchalant were he not at the moment grasping whole handfuls of her hair in his hands, making her wetter by the minute.

“The Freudians believed a man’s obsession with a lady’s hair was not about the hair on her head, but a desire to touch other, more hidden places,” she says as delicately as she can.

“How interesting.” He caresses the hair near her temples, wraps little pincurls around his fingers, making her squirm with pleasure. “But we are not Victorians.”

Fingertips press against her scalp as Hannibal begins to massage the taut skin around her occipital bone. She lets out a deep, low moan, then feels herself tense with embarrassment.

He pauses and snuggles her closer, but does not remove his hand from her hair. “I know that you experience pleasure when I touch you here…I like that you like my touch… It is nothing to be ashamed of.” He’s combing through the strands, lightly tugging, the gentle pressure switching on a current of pleasure that flows straight from her hair follicles to her clitoris. “There is no reason here for you to hold back any longer, Bedelia, and I want to hear every noise you make.”

She nods weakly, suddenly aware that she has been fondling her own breast. Hannibal leaves one hand wrist deep in her hair while the other joins hers. He tugs down her lace cup and begins to tease her already erect nipple. “Yes,” she tells him, melting at the sight of him bending his head to take her nipple between his teeth. He smiles up at her as he teases her, completely aware of his ability to play her body like a violin, plucking at her most sensitive strings. There is so much stimulation—her hair, her breasts—and now her hips are rocking against his thigh, desperate for any kind of friction, any kind of release.

His fingertips press into her oversensitive scalp as his tongue relentlessly circles her poor red nipple. She feels something building deep within her core; it takes her by surprise. “Oh …oh…no, I’ve never…” she pants. What on earth is he doing to her body—he’s barely touched her and already she is on the verge of orgasm. “Not like this…I…I..can’t.”

“I want you to.” His voice rumbles against her chest. “Just like this.”

She’s trying to hold back, but it’s just no use. Her mind says no, but her body says yes to this, yes to all the strange pleasure he’s giving her, and she comes, crashing down on him with a desperate cry, from little more than his hand in her hair.

When her eyelids flutter open again, Hannibal is gazing at her warmly. “ _Belissima_ ,” he says, for the second time that night.

She’s still woozy from her orgasm and shocked by how it happened. Unsure of what to say and longing to be close to him, she leans forward and kisses him, melding her lips to his. They melt into one another, smooth as Belgian chocolate and just as rich. She begins to unbutton his dress shirt and it fills her with a teenage excitement. He has been her secret fantasy for so long, and it feels magical to touch him at last—like opening that first gift on Christmas morning.

Bedelia works at the buttons, easing them through their starched button holes, until an inch wide stripe of skin emerges. She slides her hands under his shirt, reveling in the warmth of his skin and the velvety hardness of his muscles. She pushes the white shirt off his shoulders to expose his bare chest and a physique suited less to a hairstylist and more to some kind of Norse god.

“What are you thinking?” he asks.

She runs her fingers through the thick salt and pepper pelt on his chest and now it is Hannibal’s turn to gasp in pleasure at the contact. For months Hannibal was the only one she desired beside her in the dark, his clever hands and generous lips the only ones she wanted to feel against her skin. “I’m thinking of how I many times I imagined doing just this. Many lonely nights over the years.”

“Me too.” He brings her hand to his lips and kisses the underside of her wrist tenderly. “They don’t have to be lonely nights anymore.”

She feels herself brighten inside at what he is saying—that this is not a one night stand, a whim, for either of them. That there is something more. The last of her hard-hearted resistance melts away; she feels his affection pour down on her like the summer sun.

“And I have imagined doing this.” His lips sink down on her shoulder as his hands fiddle with the tiny hook and eye closures of her bustier. He makes quick work of them, eager to free her breasts. When he’s done he looks at her admiringly for just a second before gathering her to his chest and she sighs. She feels his erection against her, impossibly hard, and she’s drunk on the contact of skin on skin, craving more. The feel of him against her is her new favorite drug. She unbuckles his belt and unzips him—his phallus springs up obscenely, poking out of the waistband of his shorts, tip glistening and ready for her.

She takes him in her hand and begins to stroke, slowly, delighting at the way his cock twitches at her touch. She looks up at him, for a moment feeling small in his arms. She aches for him to touch her and it makes her feel raw and vulnerable. “I..I… need you, Hannibal,” she says, unable to admit how much.

“Good.” He chuckles a little. “Because I am not sure how much longer I can last. And if you keep that up I certainly won’t.”

Together they shed the rest of their clothes. As she takes off her underwear she’s suddenly made aware of how wet she is, absolutely dripping.

“Do you trust me?” he asks.

“I think we’ve established that I do.”

He nods at her gravely and arranges a set of pillows in the middle of the bed. “Turn over and rest your forearms against these,” he says, voice somewhere between a request and a command.

He means to take her from behind. It is not a position Bedelia objects to per se, but not usually one she allows on the first date. She prefers to see her lover’s face, especially so early on in a relationship. But he has been very right about how to please her so far…and she is curious. Wordlessly, she complies and braces herself against the pillows.

She can’t see what is going on from this angle, but she can hear a drawer opening and the crinkle of a foil wrapper. Her cunt gives out a little spasm of anticipation. And then she feels the heat of his thighs against hers, his phallus teasing outside her swollen lips and she’s so ready, she thinks she will explode if he doesn’t fuck her immediately.

“Hannibal…” she begins, but before she can finish, he has sheathed the length of himself inside of her. She cries out a little in pain—it has been a long time and it appears he is quite thick, thicker than any of the toys she keeps in her nightstand at home, much thicker than her own two fingers. But that feeling is soon replaced by the pleasure of being filled and stretched by something so warm and silky and hard, a sensation no toy no matter how expensive could ever replicate. He slides against her, in and out, in and out, smooth and relentless in his strokes. His hands find her hips and tug her against him and with one perfect thrust he has found her g-spot, causing her to moan loudly and see stars.

“Like this?” he asks, prodding at that spot again with his cock.

“Yes,” she gasps, pleasure blossoming into pain and back again. “Don’t you dare stop.”

He doesn’t. In fact, he quickens the pace, and she rocks back against him, fucking herself on the length of him, lost in pure sensation. It’s so good and she’s so close and then Bedelia feels his hand grasp her hair again. He gathers it up into a ponytail, securing it at the nape of her neck, and suddenly she knows why Hannibal chose this position. He holds her by the hair, firm and secure, and something about the way he does it unlocks a part of her she never knew existed. It’s the most unbelievably erotic experience she’s ever had. Every time he tugs at her just the slightest bit, Bedelia’s inner walls start to spasm, pushing her closer and closer to the edge. His other hand fingers her slick clit and she moans into the pillows. And then with one firm yank that lights up every nerve ending in her scalp, Bedelia comes again, harder than before, pleasure firing out from her core with the power of a supernova.

Her orgasm seems go to on forever, spasming and crashing, walls contracting around him. He pulls her close to him as she continues to come, grasping at her breast and kissing her neck. With a deep, hoarse cry of her name, he shudders against her and finishes. They rest against one another, sweat-slick, suspended in time, before he eases her down to the coverlet. He turns aside for just a second to remove the condom before coming back to bed and curling up around her. She is warm and tired and sleepy, and happily buries her head against his chest. He strokes her hair, much gentler now, and it is like she has always belonged in his arms. They fit together, a brass key in a well-oiled lock.

Her last thought before falling asleep is that Hannibal was right: it’s nice to be cared for, especially by him.

*

Hannibal blinks awake in the soft morning light, aware of Bedelia resting close beside him. Her hair glints silvery-gold, a pale cornsilk halo draped over the crisp white of the pillowcase. She reminds him of a lazy housecat, the way she has half-curled herself into a ball, napping in the warmth of the sun. He is a bit saddened to discover she pulled away from him in the night and tries not to take offense. She has been alone for so long, and so has he if he is honest with himself. His other paramours were fragile blooms and his affection for them flowered only for a season at most. But with Bedelia he imagines a love that lasts. Even the strongest oak must be nurtured from a fragile seed. It will take time for both of them to grow used to sharing their lives with another. It will be time well spent, he expects.

Hesitant to wake her, but unable to resist the temptation to touch her, he plants the lightest of kisses on her bare shoulder. Her skin smells delicious to him, sweet as the white flesh of a peach, and there are tiny pale freckles there—he’d like to spend the morning tasting every single one of them with his tongue.

She stirs and rolls over, blue eyes opening slowly, and then her mouth slides into the most gorgeous grin. He thought she was beautiful before with all her cool haughty grandeur, but to see her blossom into such a warm and radiant creature makes him weak. “Good morning,” she says, and he swears the husky timbre of her bedroom voice will be his undoing.

He pulls her in for a kiss, morning breath be damned. “It is a very good morning, yes.”

She flashes that soft, tender smile at him again, but says nothing, and he can tell she is feeling shy. Her hands caress the stubble on his cheeks, silk against sandpaper, and he knows how she is feeling. How rare it is to long for something…for someone…for so long and have reality exceed your wildest expectations.

She pulls back and asks. “The bathroom?”

“Down the hall on your left.”

She slides out of bed and he aches to have her gone even for a moment. Her naked skin glowing pearl white in the sun nearly makes up for it. She slips her arms into his discarded dress shirt and the hem nearly comes to her knees, a look that manages to be equal parts sexy and adorable. She tosses her curls over her shoulder and says, “I’ll just be a minute.”

His cock hardens at the very sound of her voice. “I’ll be waiting.”

In an effort to take his mind off his raging erection, Hannibal checks his cell phone, discovering several messages from Margot and Abigail.

Margot texted: _You and the guest of honor left conspicuously early last night_

He smiles a little and texts back: _I don’t kiss and tell._

Abigail has sent him a string of eggplants all in a row. Does she wish him to stop at the Farmer’s Market? He wasn’t even aware that Abigail liked eggplant. He cannot keep up with the internet slang of Millennial-aged Americans. Perhaps Bedelia will know.

A ping shows another message from Margot. _I hope for your sake there was more than just kissing going on._ She has also included an eggplant. Hannibal is starting to sense the little picture has more to do with pornography than produce.

 _Have you checked out Tattlecurl today?_   Margot asks.

Hannibal follows up on Margot’s suggestions and navigates his way to the Tattlecurl homepage; he’ll never give Freddie Lounds the satisfaction of knowing he has her website among his bookmarks. The headline reads, “BEAUTY SHOP OF HORRORS: _Frederique’s_ of Baltimore shut down in Health Department sting.” Hannibal chuckles, proud of his handiwork, savoring the schadenfreude.

“What’s so funny?” Bedelia asks, joining him on the bed and resting her head against his pillow.

He curls an arm around her to spoon her and she sighs. “See for yourself.”

Bedelia’s sharp eyes flick over Freddie’s article. “ _Frederique’s_ has been shut down in violation of half a dozen OSHA regulations—investigators discovered toilets overflowing with raw sewage and an infestation of rats on the premises. Rats, really?” She turns over her shoulder to look at him. "Hannibal, did you have something to do with this?”

“That depends. Do you disapprove?”

She smirks a little. “Not entirely.”

He tosses the phone back on the nightstand, so that he may gather her up in his arms with both hands. “No one manhandles my favorite client.” He kisses her briefly on the lips. “My favorite person,” he amends.

Bedelia threads her fingers through his chest hair and he can feel her beginning to melt in his arms. “You were defending my honor.”

“Mmmhmm.” He nuzzles against her, gently pressing her down into the cushion of the mattress, and she welcomes him into his arms, ready for round two. He can feel her eager and willing; she grasps his neck, pulling him in to kiss over and over.

She sighs against him and laughs. “I discovered I have a world class case of sex hair, Hannibal.”

He caresses her blonde locks, gone quite wild after last night’s activities. “Yes, that is quite a problem.” He pets her, smoothing out the tangles as best he can, and she arches against him in bliss. “Fortunately you have someone who can fix it for you.”

“I get the feeling you would only mess it up all over again.”

He parts her thighs and nudges his erection against her sex. “That was the idea.”

She tosses her long, glossy mane of hair against his chest, inviting him to play. Dating one’s hairdresser came with certain perks, and he was going to ensure that Bedelia enjoyed every single one.

 

THE END

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to everyone who read and commented and patiently waited for me to finish this story. Your encouragement and enthusiasm meant a lot. When I started, I had no idea a hair salon au could ever be so popular or so much fun to write. It's been a blast!


End file.
